Lucid Prismatic Affection
by monarch-chaser
Summary: Karen is thinking about Grace, while she's watching her from across the room. Short, but worth it. R and R!


disclaimer: I do not own these characters! (but damn, I wish I did!) This is an extremely short little fic. A page or two. This fic is taken from Karen's point of view, and she's thinking about a very special little lady.  
  
Lucid Prismatic Affection  
  
I hate sitting here, don't you know? There are much more useful things I could be doing with my time. I swear I've looked through this Vogue five hundred fucking times! And yet, you don't stop, do you? You just keep drawing in that pad you have. Sketching, sketching. Endless.  
  
But, I do love to sit here and look at you. You think I'm too drunk to think straight; I'm too involved with my magazines. That'd be a lie. You think I'm good for nothing, and baby, maybe I'm not good for much in the way of this office, but I'd have you screaming flat on your back and begging for more in two seconds or less.  
  
I constantly criticize your hair, face, clothing, and your obviously flat chest. Wouldn't you just die to know that what I make fun of is what I love most about you? I absolutely adore you in every way possible. But I can't tell you how I feel. I can't show my emotion to you, no matter how much I want you. You don't think about girls the way I do.  
  
Now the light from the setting sun is hitting the back of your hair. From where I'm sitting (at this desk from Hell, mind you!) you look like you're glowing. That red hair sponges every ray and sets your hair on fire. God, how I want to run my fingers through that hair and kiss those lips and touch that-  
  
Now you've set down your pencil. I must be on guard in case you look at me and realize I'm staring. Yes, Red-and-Flat, staring at you! You've walked into the back, probably to bring out some material. I flip to the next page of my magazine, and imagine what the dress on the model in the picture would look like on you. Then I imagine what I'd look like on you. I sigh out loud, thinking about us together, walking on a beach, holding hands and kissing as the waves wrapped themselves around our feet.  
  
Now you've returned again, and you seem to notice me for the first time in at least an hour. You're speaking to me, holding up two shades of purple fabric. I am trying hard to focus on what you're saying, but I can't bring myself to think about anything other than your eyes. I nod, and then realize you've asked me something that doesn't require a nod. So, in my defense, I comment on the shade of your hair and how even that purple fabric would look better on you than that mop on your head!  
  
Damn it! Why do I do that? Now you look hurt, and I feel stupid, but I have to seem confident. You go back to your desk and throw down the fabric. Now I'm pissed at myself. I walk over to the mini-bar and fix myself another martini. Better to drink myself into oblivion than have to acknowledge the fact that you're hurt and offended by me. I wish I could show you the real me. But all I can do is insult you.  
  
I turn to face you, making a big show of sloshing my martini around, praying to all that lives that you'll just brush my comments off and chalk it up to me being drunk and high. You turn to me, and I look you in the eyes. Fuck me, you're still hurt. I take a step towards you, and you turn your head away, but not in time. I see the tear cascade down your cheek. I made you cry! I hate me.  
  
Normally, I would just saunter back over to my desk, and, I do want to, but I cannot. I set my glass down, and walk slowly and soundlessly up behind you. I place my left hand on your back. I feel that you're crying even more, now that you don't have to look at me. I slowly move my hand down to your hip and press my body into yours.  
  
Gracie, don't you see I love you? This isn't a game.  
  
You turn to me, and sweet eyes are tear-stained. You think I am drunk, and say something exactly to that effect. I tell you I didn't mean it. I push you into your drawing table, and then take your hand in mind. The sun is almost gone. This is my chance. I can turn it all around right here. I could make you mine! Slowly, I lift my chin towards you. On tip-toes now, I am making my way to your lips. My hands are suddenly all about your back and you place a hand on my chest. Our lips touch, and we kiss. Just as my mind relaxes, and actually starts to believe that you could love me, I feel your hand push me away.  
  
"Karen, you're drunk." you say ruthlessly, and you turn around and pick your pencil back up. I stare, sobs trying so hard to burst from my body. My throat is tense and tight, now. I can't believe it. I want to throw myself off a bridge. On top of being a bitch, I'm a whore and an ass.  
  
I nod, staring into your back.  
  
"Yeah, yeah honey, you're right. I'm drunk." I walk in a perfectly straight line back to my desk and sit down, flipping to the first page in my Vogue.  
  
I hate sitting here, don't you know? I swear I've looked through this Vogue five hundred times.............  
  
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End file.
